


The Warmth of Death on the Back of His Neck

by Arikethtae



Series: The Ramblings of a Procrastinator [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arikethtae/pseuds/Arikethtae
Summary: Draco Malfoy is dead, but he still lives.





	The Warmth of Death on the Back of His Neck

**Author's Note:**

> This came to be as I was writing my Rite of Passage paper for my Anthropology class. I really like how this came out. I hope you enjoy.

Other people get parties, celebrations, he gets death. Draco isn’t dead yet but he feels dead. He feels Death’s caress on his spine as he’s forced to kneel. He doesn’t want to look up, his mind void of everything even fear. Many people fear the monster before him, but in that moment there is no fear. There is not even hatred.

He had dreams once, when he was a child. He had hope. He’s no longer a child. He’s sixteen and he’s about to die.

His arm reaches out as Death wraps around him. He is being presented, his chest tight but there is no tremble to his fingers. He doesn’t want this, he has never wanted this. 

He believes that some are better than others but he knows that in death they are all equal. He knows that his traditions should be honored, remembered, celebrated but somewhere along the line they got tainted. 

His kind was special. They were a gift from the Old Gods, a gift to the Earth to bring back life, to continue it. Now that gift only brought death.

He used to believe magic could solve anything, could create beauty and splendor out of nothing.

Now it destroyed him. 

There is no courage in him as his looks up, only death. The light inside him that he cultivated so carefully in the dark draining from him. 

He feels it quiver not wanting to abandon him as a wand tip touches his skin. 

He never wanted this. 

His life was built on promises but he knows this is the ruination of him and all the promises he believed. 

He wanted to be free but not even in death would he be granted freedom. 

He can hear his parents breath; his father’s elation and his mother’s regret. She had wanted to protect him and he had wanted to please.

But he had never wanted this.

He never wanted to be a slave.

His father spoke of honor but there was none — only death. But perhaps Death is his only friend.

After all Death is suspiciously warm. He is on fire but he feels nothing. Somewhere deep inside him the light festers, struggling against the dark and winning. It is a small victory, but he feels nothing.

In that moment his inner eye sees all he could have been, and all he still could be but it means nothing.

All his eyes see is the dark mark.

His rite of passage is complete.

Draco Malfoy is sixteen years old, and on the midnight hour of his birthday, he becomes a Death Eater.

Draco Malfoy is sixteen years old, and on the midnight hour of his birthday, he dies.


End file.
